Pure White
by WindWisp
Summary: Vincent and Rachel's wedding, seen from the eyes of the bride's sister, Angelina Durless.


Pure White

The humid, summer air clings like a blanket as I reach the shade of a large oak tree, the light breeze doing nothing to cool the sweat that has broken out from my run. I lean against the tree and feel its rough bark against my back, no doubt leaving scratches on the exposed skin. Looking around at the park, all I can see is green. Green, and the sun reflecting off of the gravel pathways, making me wish I still had my bangs to keep the light out. The scent of the pink and white roses permeates the air with sickening potency, and I start to wonder how such common flowers can be considered romantic.

"My, someone's eager," Rachel sighs with a smile as she crests the hill. I want to tell her she's wrong, that I'd rather be at home, but I can't find the words. Her white dress collects the sun's light until my eyes seem to burn and I have to look away until she joins me in the shade. She's sweating, too – just a slight sheen beneath her veil, making her flushed skin glisten as she looks out across the park. She turns her head to me, smiling.

"You look adorable, you know?" she says, eyes sparkling as she takes in my red attire for what seems like the fifth time today. It's as if as soon as she leaves, she forgets what I look like. Still, I blush and look down; my sister never gives false compliments. "So, what had you in such a hurry?" she asks.

"I wanted a breeze," I say, and she chuckles, the two of us falling back into silence. In truth, I had just wanted to run, wanted to feel my breath as it burned my lungs, run until my entire body ached and I could be sure it was there. I wanted to get away.

"Wait, Rachel!" I shout, realizing that she has started walking again. I'm panting a bit as I reach her, and she chuckles at me again. Her face is aglow with sunlight, and seeing her so happy, I can't help but smile back.

Soon we reach our destination: a cluster of about a hundred cast-iron chairs painted the purest white, all facing a grand dais upon which stand two men. We stop several yards away, hidden by flowering rose bushes. Looking to each other, Rachel and I share a mischievous smile and peer through the branches, spying on the guests like we used to at parties when we were little. Most of the chairs are occupied, but there are some gentlemen out of their seats, standing to converse with others seated across the aisle. All of the women are dressed in light pastels with ruffles and lace, making me feel self-conscious in my bright red gown. But I look to the dais and remember why I'm wearing it: Vincent Phantomhive. There he stands, perfection in his light grey suit, smiling at something the priest has just said.

But then the harpist begins to play, and he steps into position as the guests all scramble to find their seats. I might have found their behavior humorous, had my heart not begun to pound and my breathing gone shallow. I feel a slight tug on my arm, and let Rachel guide me into place. The soft smile remains on her face, but deeply hidden I can sense her excitement and nervousness. I want to tell her it's alright, that he loves her as much as she loves him, that someone as lovely and sweet as her could have nothing short of a perfect life. But I can't. So instead I pull her into a tight hug, letting go only when I hear the harp start up a new melody – my cue.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes as I turn toward the front, looking up and blinking hard before I begin my walk. As I turn the corner past the bushes and into view, I can feel a hundred pairs of eyes on me, a hundred pairs of lips whispering to their neighbors at the audacity of someone wearing red to a wedding. How could someone show such disrespect to her own sister? It was tacky, it was tasteless…

I keep my head high, looking at the man who doesn't cringe, who doesn't bear a look of distaste. I see his smile widen as I step out in my red dress, my bangs short and hair flowing freely down my back. No one else's opinion matters. And for a moment, as I walk down that aisle, I can pretend that I'm the one he's waiting for. I can pretend that he is happy to see me and me alone, and not anticipating the moment when I have reached the front and stepped aside, freeing the aisle for the woman he truly wants. I can pretend that I'm perfect enough for Vincent Phantomhive. But as I reach the podium, I swerve to the left, standing to the side to watch as the guests all stand and face back down the aisle.

My sister enters as the music changes, the sunlight radiating from her being no longer painful, but glorious. Her auburn hair shines, a light breeze teasing the sunlight into ripples on its surface. Her white gown floats behind her, lace and pearls clinging to just the right places, emphasizing her small waist and delicate figure. And upon her face is a smile of pure radiance.

I sneak a glance to the man at my side, and my heart is stilled by the look of pure adoration on his face. My lungs freeze, my eyes moist and throat dry as I flick my gaze between the perfect couple. I'm merely an outsider, gazing from far away at what could have been mine. But no, Vincent Phantomhive would never fall for a girl like me. Rachel deserves him more than I ever could.

The ceremony itself goes quickly, the priest's words flowing in and out of my consciousness as I focus instead on the couple in front of me. I make note of every subtle glance, every brush of the fingers as each gesture chips away at my façade. The moist heat presses in on me from all sides, my sweat-soaked garments growing ever heavier as the gritty breeze sticks to my slick skin. It's almost bearable here in the shade, but I can feel my heels sinking into the soft earth and shift my weight to my toes.

"I do." Those words, uttered by both, settle in my heart. He lifts her veil, and the kiss they share is so sweet, so tender that I feel dirty and guilty for watching. Then they're walking down the aisle, and the rustle of fabric is deafening as the crowd stands to see them out.

I'm the last one to approach as they stand in front of the carriage, and perhaps it's my imagination, but they seem to gather the sun's last rays around them, oblivious to their heat. "Angelina," Rachel says, reaching out to take my hand, "Be good for mother. You can come and visit us any time, you know that, right?" She looks at me with concern, and I realize all at once that I'm going to miss her. I'm going to miss her terribly. I have spent so much time thinking about the loss of Vincent Phantomhive that I failed to realize that I'm losing my sister, as well. For a moment, only a moment, my composure breaks, and I'm swept into my sister's embrace, her arms tight around me as I struggle to hold back the tears. I try focus instead on the feeling of satin against my cheek, slightly moist as it catches a single tear.

But I pull away, smiling brilliantly as I tell her goodbye; waving as the carriage rolls out of sight beyond the trees. Into the sunset – how perfect. And suddenly I'm running – through the dispersing crowd, past all of the laughs and smiles and partings, the wind whipping my hair against my face. I throw open the door to the house, surrounded by the echoes of my heels clacking on the marble staircase and throw myself into my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

The vanity mirror shows my reflection – red hair, red dress, red eyes – and suddenly I need to be out of that dress, need to be free of the corset that holds me together. As I stand there in my shift, taking in deep gulps of air, my eyes are drawn to the reflection of my hair. _It suits you_, he had said, _like the fire lilies_. Those were the words that made me fall in love, that caused me this pain. It was this damned hair that cost me my heart.

And just like that, I can no longer hold it in. I fall to the ground as the tears run down my face, salt water gathering at my lips as I gasp for air, my body wracking with sobs. Strands of hair fall in my face, sticking to my cheeks, the ends tickling my elbows. With a surge of anger, I grab a pair of scissors from my vanity and slice off the offending strands. I grab fistfuls of this wretched, cursed hair, hacking away until the ground is covered in blood-red hair.

There are no more tears. There is nothing. I stand and brush the hair from my shift, numb to the silken sheets as I climb into my bed. The last bit of daylight is peeking through the curtains, but I turn away and curl into myself.

I never said goodbye to Vincent.


End file.
